Korinthal shoved the patrolman aside, the man stumbling over the collapsed messenger, who lay gasping in a puddle of black sludge. The smell of burning deep-glass and raw sewage clawed at Korinthal’s throat. Alarms shrieked through the Sunken Exchange, an uneven chorus of metallic wails and distant shouts. He ignored the chaos, the brass whistles of harbor marshals herding terrified merchants, the crackle of collapsing timbers from the holding cells. His mind fixed on the messenger's words: Savia down in the toxic sluice, marrow-grit burning in her veins. He had to find her. Now. Before the Void-dust consumed her. He sprinted through the smoke-choked corridors, his boots slipping on slick, grimy tiles. The Sunken Exchange, usually a bastion of ordered, albeit brutal, commerce, was a labyrinth of pandemonium. Guards scrambled, their lanterns casting frantic, dancing shadows. Korinthal dodged a flailing merchant, then vaulted over an overturned cargo crate, his gaze fixed on the glowing azure light of the Magistrate’s Spire, a beacon piercing the artificial gloom. The Spire held the city’s records, its communication nexus, and the only authority strong enough to launch a full-scale search into the blind rifts. He needed the deep-dredge patrols, the Abyssal Explorers, every diver and skiff. He would use every coin of the Rask fortune he’d just claimed to drag her back from the deep. “Voss.” The voice, calm and unhurried, cut through the din like a honed blade. Korinthal skidded to a halt, turning to face Prefect Othelius Croy. The old man stood at the mouth of a quiet side-passage, an untouched cup of amber-colored ale in his hand, as if the entire Exchange wasn’t collapsing around them. His silver hair was perfectly coiffed, his robes unblemished. He regarded Korinthal with a soft, almost paternal smile, a chilling contrast to the raging inferno of the city. A faint scent of spiced wine and old paper clung to him. “Prefect,” Korinthal managed, his voice tight, his lungs burning. “The Rask fugitive. She’s escaped into the lower rifts. I need access to the district survey charts, the deep-skiff manifests. We must organize a pursuit.” Croy took a slow sip of his ale, his gaze unblinking. “Pursuit? My dear Korinthal, why on Morvayn would you wish to pursue a common criminal? One you so meticulously brought to justice, no less.” Korinthal kept his heels planted, his pulse hammering against his temples. “Justice demands she face the consequences, Prefect. The Void-laced deep-glass was a clear act of treason.” “Indeed it was,” Croy said, the smile widening, revealing teeth yellowed with age. “And such a brilliant little plot, wasn’t it? To frame Savia Rask, secure her family’s entire estate, and eliminate the last vestige of a rival house. I must confess, the execution was flawless.” He clapped his hands together, a quiet, almost dismissive sound. “You’ve done the city a great service, Korinthal. And me, personally.” The air thickened, suddenly difficult to breathe. Korinthal’s carefully constructed composure began to fray. “I don’t understand. I acted in accordance with the law.” “Oh, you did, you did,” Croy chuckled, the sound devoid of warmth. “But you acted on *my* law. I orchestrated this, Korinthal. Every step. Do you truly believe a bankrupted orphan could simply ‘discover’ contraband of such potency, and then, by sheer coincidence, manage to plant it in the trunk of the last remaining Rask? And that the Wardens, so diligent in their inspections, would just happen to find it at the precise moment of your greatest triumph?” Korinthal's throat dried to chalk. He thought back to the anonymous tip, the “accidental” intel, the timely distraction in the rift. All of it. Croy had been pulling the strings. He had encouraged Korinthal’s revenge, not out of any sense of justice, but to use him. To destroy both the Voss and Rask houses simultaneously, clearing the board. “The deep-glass monopoly,” Korinthal whispered, the words tasting like ash. “You wanted it all.” Croy nodded, a slow, deliberate movement. “Precisely. The Rask fortunes, the Voss enterprise… all consolidated under the authority of the city. My authority. You see, Korinthal, the city requires stability. And stability demands absolute control over the Abyssal Rifts. A control I now possess, thanks to your unwitting assistance.” He raised his ale in a mocking toast. “I hereby invoke Eminent Domain. All Rask assets, now absorbed into the public trust. All Voss assets, including your expedition permits, your ships, your research… also forfeited.” The world tilted. His revenge, his bitter, all-consuming purpose, had been a charade. He had merely cleared the path for Croy, gutting both their houses with a single poisoned ledger. “You used my spite as a lever,” Korinthal rasped, fingers hooking rigid at his sides. “But the Void-laced deep-glass… that was my doing. My design.” Croy’s smile faltered, replaced by a look of chilling satisfaction. “Oh, that, my dear boy, was indeed your design. And a truly exquisite touch it was. So cruel, so final. You see, the contraband deep-glass wasn’t merely illegal. It was… enhanced. My alchemists, always eager for a challenge, imbued it with a unique radiative signature. One that reacts rather violently with certain genetic markers.” He paused, letting the words hang in the smoke-filled air. “The Rask bloodline, Korinthal. It’s uniquely susceptible. The Void-dust you planted on Savia will not simply sicken her. It will slowly, agonizingly, break down her cellular structure from the inside out. A thirty-day death sentence, I’d estimate. No cure, no reprieve. Your trap, Korinthal, has become her tomb.” The corridor seemed to contract, the reek of burning tallow sharp in Korinthal's nostrils. He had calculated every gram of contraband, every false manifest, every shred of disgrace—but never this rotting marrow-fire. He had traded her life away to settle a dead man's ledger, and the realization struck him hollow: his entire vendetta was nothing beside the terror of her dying out in the dark. “No,” he breathed, shaking his head, a desperate, animal sound escaping his throat. “There has to be a cure. There has to be.” Croy regarded his unraveling with detached interest. “There is but one rumor of such a thing. A relic. The Leviathan’s Tear, they call it. Said to be a pearl formed in the heart of the first great leviathan, possessing potent restorative properties. But it is a myth, Korinthal. A legend. And certainly not something I would ever expend resources on to recover for a condemned criminal.” Korinthal’s gaze snapped to Croy, raw desperation blazing in his eyes. “Tell me where it is. I’ll go. I’ll bring it back. Anything.” Croy’s smile returned, colder than the abyssal depths. “There is a price, Korinthal. A rather steep one. I will tell you where this ‘Tear’ might be found. I will even provide a small skiff, just enough for one man. But you will go alone. And when you find Savia Rask… you will not administer the cure. You will end her. Permanently. The city requires a clear end to the Rask line, a final, definitive closure to this whole regrettable affair. Bring me proof of her demise, Korinthal, and the Leviathan’s Tear is yours.”